


People Watching

by StrawberryLane



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alluded to, Barebone children deserve better, Canonical Child Abuse, Christmas, Credence Barebone Lives, Family Feels, Gen, Good Original Percival Graves, Muggle Life, Muggles, Neighbors, POV Female Character, POV Outsider, Parent Original Percival Graves, Workaholic Original Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9150778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrawberryLane/pseuds/StrawberryLane
Summary: Mrs Sommerville has an excellent view into the houses on the other side of the narrow street that passes between them. She uses this advantage to spy – though spy is such a strong, misleading word – to check up on her neighbors. From her cozy little armchair in the living room she can see anyone who walks past on the street and she can see what's happening inside the kitchens and living rooms of the houses across the street. Unfortunately for her, the house just across her, the one she can see into the best, belongs to a grumpy man called Mr Graves, who's not exactly known for his pleasant personality.(Mrs Sommerville doesn't pay him any mind, until he shows up accompanied by three children).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I recently saw Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them and fell head over heels in love. Those poor Barebone children, I just want them to have a little happiness. Not sure if I succeeded in giving it to them here, but hey, I tried.

* * *

 

Mrs Sommerville isn't the nosy kind of woman her family and friends often accuse her of being, she knows this. She just likes to know what is happening among her friends and family and among the families that live on her street. It's not that odd of a hobby, she thinks. After all, she's nearly sixty eight years old, alone most of the time now that her husband, the dear Willard, has gone up to heaven, and Alice has moved to the other side of Central Park with her husband, Jonathan. Alice doesn't visit as much as Mrs Sommerville had hoped for, she has her own troubles with her own children now. Robert would, Mrs Sommerville knows. He would visit every day, if he was alive. But no, all they got was a letter, dated several weeks before, informing them that Robert, not even thirty five years old, had died in battle. Bravely, it said in the letter, though no one Mrs Sommerville spoke to could tell her what bravely actually meant in the context of things. Mrs Sommerville likes to think it meant her son died heroically, saving some other solider from a grenade or something.

So, needless to say, Mrs Sommerville has had to find something to occupy her time with, or she'll get terribly lonely. Helping Mrs Gardiner with her sewing work only does take a certain amount of time, and it's faster because they're two. Mrs Gardiner always invites her for tea afterward, but Mrs Sommerville has only said yes a handful of times – The cookies Mrs Gardiner gives her along with the tea would be better suited for one of the woman's five children, Mrs Sommerville thinks. They all look like they could do with some more meat on their bones.

Mrs Sommerville has an excellent view into the houses on the other side of the narrow street that passes between them. She uses this advantage to spy – though spy is such a strong, misleading word – to check up on her neighbors. From her cozy little armchair in the living room she can see anyone who walks past on the street and she can see what's happening inside the kitchens and living rooms of the houses across the street. Unfortunately for her, the house just across her, the one she can see into the best, belongs to a grumpy man called Mr Graves, who's not exactly known for his pleasant personality. Mrs Sommerville has exchanged perhaps ten words with the man since he moved into the house after old Mr Fitzwilliam died, eight years ago.

Mr Graves, whose first name is Percival, is the type of man who's rarely home. More often than not Mrs Sommerville doesn't even see him leave for work – he's long gone by the time she and her aching joints makes it into her kitchen to get started on breakfast. He's an incredibly boring neighbor, Mrs Sommerville often thinks. He doesn't have a wife or any children and never brings anyone home, nor does he have any visitors as far as Mrs Sommerville knows. He spends more time at his place of work, whatever that it – he does look incredibly fancy and important whenever he steps foot outside the door, so it's probably some important kind of work.

Mrs Sommerville doesn't really pay Mr Graves and the life he leads behind closed doors any mind, until one rainy gray day when it's impossible for her not to.

Because Mr Graves has popped up outside his own house, seemingly appearing from nowhere, much like he usually does, but this day he's not alone. No, he's accompanied by three young people, two girls and a boy, all dressed in dark clothes and hats. The children – because that's what they are – huddle together, all hunched over, somewhat unsteady on their feet, as Mr Graves quickly makes his way up the three stone steps that lead to his front door. Mrs Sommerville watches, hidden behind her flowery curtain, as the man rummages around in his pockets for a while before producing his key. Mrs Sommerville watches as Mr Graves ushers the children inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

Mrs Sommerville moves quickly, as quickly as the ache in her legs let her, into the living room, to her cozy armchair, from where she has direct view into Mr Graves living room. She grabs the scarf she's currently knitting, because, she reasons, if she can see straight into the man's living room, then odds are he can see straight into hers. It wouldn't do, being caught spying on other peoples business.

As she knits away, mumbling excitedly to both herself and to Greta – her ancient cat – she glances towards the other house as often as she dares.

Percival Graves never have visitors, never mind children! Exciting things are happening.

The children are all seated in the living room, all with their backs against the windows, so Mrs Sommerville can't actually see their faces, only Mr Graves' as he's standing, pacing, before them, mouth moving all along.

Oh, how Mrs Sommerville wishes she could hear what was being said.

The children have removed the outer layers of their clothing and their hats and Mrs Sommerville can therefore see them – well, the backs of their heads, more clearly. They're still dressed in dark, gray and black clothing, but that seems to be where the similarity ends. One of the girls, the youngest, has blonde hair up in plaits wrapped around head. The other has brown, wavy hair, made up in some kind of hairdo that Mrs Sommerville, as she's running a commentary on everything she notices to Greta, can't describe in words really. Fortunately enough, Greta doesn't seem to mind.

The boy, where he's seated between the girls, has black hair, cut into the most hideous bowl cut. He also hunches into himself the most, his shoulders almost at level with his ears, shrinking into himself the more Mr Graves talks.

The sun has gone down, and Mrs Sommerville can't see a bit of the scarf she's knitting, by the time Mr Graves, who she can still see, thanks to the fact that the man had turned on the lamps in his living room, stops talking and sits down. Mrs Sommerville looks on as the man, who has a larger amount of gray hair than he did when she saw him last week, hides his face in his hands. He looks, Mrs Sommerville reflects, very tired.

The children sit stock still until Mr Graves stands up again, dragging a hand through his hair. He gestures towards the living room door and the children walk past him and disappear into corners of the house Mrs Sommerville, much to her annoyance, can't actually see.

Mrs Sommerville stays put in her chair in the dark, but when nothing happens inside the other house, no shadows move, no nothing, she eventually calls it a night and makes her slow, time consuming way up the stairs to her bedroom.

The next morning, as she's eating her porridge for breakfast, Mr Graves house looks as it normally does, dead and empty behind the windows – except it doesn't. Someone is moving in the kitchen and Mrs Sommerville squints – maybe she should take Dr Hornby up on his offer of glasses – until she makes out the shape of the older girl in Mr Graves kitchen. She's standing beside the stove, stirring something in a pot. The younger girl is there too, seated at the table, bowls and spoons already laid out in front of her.

They're already dressed for the day, Mrs Sommerville notices. She's still wearing her embroidered dressing gown herself. Her dear Willard gave it to her for their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

Mrs Sommerville is busy trying to figure out why the girls are already dressed for the day, despite it being a Saturday and no school as far as she knows. As she's preoccupied with this, both the boy and Mr Graves – Mrs Sommerville would have thought he'd have gone to work already – enter the kitchen, also dressed for the day. Do these people not believe in sleeping in?

Mrs Sommerville sneaks glances as the foursome quickly eats whatever was in the pot on the stove – porridge, most likely – and disappear from the kitchen once again, the older girl beginning to wash up the dishes until Mr Graves reenters the kitchen and tells her something. The girl dries her hands, and leaves both the dirty dishes in the sink and the room altogether.

Ten minutes later, all four of them step out through the door, dressed for a cold and rainy day – that is to say, in the exact same clothes as the day before – and Mr Graves locks the door behind them. Mrs Sommerville cranes her neck to watch them as they make their way down the street; Mr Graves in the lead, his overcoat swishing around his legs. The children follow behind him, the boy first, head bowed and then the girls, the younger keeping hold of the older one's arm.

They return hours later, tired looks on their faces and their bodies laden with packages. Clearly, they've been shopping. Mr Graves looks more irritated than tired, though, as he juggles three different packages to look through his pockets for the key.

The packages, Mrs Sommerville realizes, must have been mainly for the children, because Mr Graves soon appears in the living room, settling down on the sofa with his back against the windows.

Soon enough, the children come into the room, having changed into clothes they must've bought that day. They've all gone for, while still relatively dark shades, brown and blue and green and red, instead of the black and gray they were sporting before. Mr Graves nods and seems pleased, from what Mrs Sommerville can see, which isn't much other than the back of the man's face. The youngest girl twirls, the skirt of her dress flaring out around her. She looks happy for a minute, before seeming to remember herself and abruptly coming to a stop, glancing at Mr Graves, who, as far as Mrs Sommerville can see, pays her no mind. Still, the girl doesn't continue twirling around, instead staying rooted on the spot until they're clearly being dismissed by Mr Graves.

 

*

 

Over a week goes by before anything interesting happens again. The inhabitants of Mr Graves house have clearly been keeping busy, cleaning the place from top to bottom, if the rugs and blankets being hung out through the windows to air out and sometimes to dry is any indication.

This is the first day Mr Graves have actually left the house, and the children, alone since they first arrived on his doorstep. He strides away down the street early in the morning. Mrs Sommerville watches – shut up, she's not creepy – as the children eat breakfast and clean the kitchen before making their way into the living room, which apparently is the room they're supposed to clean today. The boy and the older girl begin moving all the furniture out of the room, while the youngest girl begins sweeping the floor. The boy, for a moment visible through the kitchen windows, returns to the living room carrying a bucket of water and a rag. As he begins to clean the windows, Mrs Sommerville forces herself to lean back in her chair in a way that looks a little more normal than sitting hunched forward, face pressed against the window glass so that she can see better. Getting caught won't do.

The older girl brushes past the youngest one, arms full of trinkets Mr Graves keeps around his living room. There's not much, because Mr Graves is not the sort of man who hoards things, especially not decorative ones. The biggest one is a large blue egg decorated with dark shiny stones, possibly diamonds of some kind. As the older girl brushes past the younger one, the younger one abruptly turns and the handle of her broom comes in crashing contact with the blue egg in the older girl's arms.

Mrs Sommerville watches as the egg, as if in slow motion, tumbles from the older girl's arms, down onto the floor. The looks of shock on the girls faces tell her that the egg is probably no longer whole. The younger girl drops her broom and scrambles down onto the floor, out of sight. The older girl hastily sets the things she's carrying on the mantelpiece and joins the younger one, probably trying to pick up the pieces. The boy, still holding the wet rag against the window, has turned around, watching the girls, seemingly not noticing the way the rag is dripping water down his sleeve.

The girls come back up into view, both clutching pieces of the broken blue egg. It doesn't seem to have shattered in a thousand tiny pieces though, because after storing the pieces of it in a bowl from the kitchen, they don't go back to sweep the floor again, just to continue cleaning the room with tremendous care.

Mrs Sommerville leaves them to it, because she too has other things of importance to do, like feed Greta and sort through the clean laundry she's been avoiding for well over a week. She hates sorting through laundry, even though she's the only one living in the house now, so there's nowhere near as much of it as there used to be.

Mr Graves arrives back later in the afternoon, after Mrs Sommerville has sorted through her laundry and begun knitting yet another scarf – keeping an eye out on the house on the other side of the street keeps Mrs Sommerville's hands busy, that's for sure. The children have had a quick lunch and probably spent some time apart inside the house before all three of them make their way into the living room shortly before Mr Graves comes round the corner of the street. He probably told them when he'd be back, Mrs Sommerville reasons.

She watches as Mr Graves enters the living room, the three children sitting on the sofa. The oldest girl holds out the bowl she's apparently been holding, the one with the pieces of the broken blue egg inside of it, making sure Mr Graves has a good hold of it before letting go. She, Mrs Sommerville notices, seems to be trying to make herself as small as she can, without actually disappearing entirely. The same goes for both the boy and the younger girl as well.

Mrs Sommerville frowns. The boy has stood up in front of Mr Graves, like he wants to shield the girls and Mrs Sommerville realizes with a start that that is probably exactly what he's trying to do. She puts down her knitting, sitting on the edge of her seat. She's ready to, well... do something. If Mr Graves turns out to be one of the most despicable kinds of people there is on this earth, Mrs Sommerville is going to do her best to protect those kids. It's such a shame her joints ache like nothing else, because otherwise she'd be out of her seat and banging on their door already. Or perhaps she wouldn't. Mrs Sommerville has never had any threat of violence from a family member toward her whatsoever in her life, but she thinks maybe the smart thing to do if you discover it around you, would be to wait to help the person being abused until their abuser is not nearby. If she goes knocking on the door right this moment, it may only serve to put those kids in more danger once she leaves.

So she stays put in her chair.

As it turns out, Mrs Sommerville's worry seems to be unfounded at this moment in time. Mr Graves, seeing the way the boy puts himself in front of the girls, puts his hands up in a placating gesture, his mouth moving in what Mrs Sommerville can only assume is reassurances, because the boy sits back down and the girls straighten up. Mr Graves puts the bowl containing the broken egg on the coffee table, out of sight for Mrs Sommerville. Then, much to her astonishment, he pulls out what can only be described as a stick of wood and starts waving it around.

Why in the world would he do that?

The sight of him seems to make the children relax a fraction more, so perhaps Mr Graves is only doing it to make sure they know he's not mad about the egg.

 

*

 

A few weeks have passed when Christmas rolls around the corner. Mrs Sommerville will be spending Christmas eve and day with Alice and Johnathan and the grandchildren, so she hasn't bothered locating a tree to drag into her home to decorate with lights. She doesn't need it, not when there's only her and Greta, and Greta doesn't care much about what time of year it is, Mrs Sommerville thinks. She hasn't even bothered to put up a Christmas wreath.

Someone else who doesn't appear to bother, might not even notice Christmas is just around the corner, is Mr Graves. His house is as dark and sad looking as it always is, no matter the time of year.

And that just won't do. Mr Graves, for all he seems like he's excellent at his work, whatever that is, does not know how to care for children, Mrs Sommerville decides. Children need to experience Christmas in all its happy, glittering glowing glory, at least once.

Mrs Sommerville sets to work immoderately. She bakes two of her famous cherry and pecan pies, puts them in a basket together with a bottle of mulled wine – she might not have a tree or a wreath, but she can never be without mulled wine in December – grabs the walking stick she still likes to pretend she doesn't actually need and crosses the street, knocking on the door.

It is wrenched open only seconds later and Mrs Sommerville is met by a very suspicious Mr Graves, a suspiciousness that fades away into confusion when he sees who's standing on his doorstep.

"Mrs Sommerville? Um...What can I do for you?"

"Well, letting me inside to rest my poor legs would be a good start. I hope it's all right for me to just invite myself over like this, I couldn't help but notice you haven’t put any Christmas decorations or anything like that up, and that's a terrible shame. And I made more pie than I needed to and while that’s not strictly a Christmas treat, I've also got some mulled wine and as we all know mulled wine tastes better when there are other people around to enjoy it with. And children need to experience Christmas, Mr Graves," Mrs Sommerville is well aware she's babbling away, but she's learned over the years that that is usually the easiest way to get what you want. Just babble away and the other person will do just about anything you ask for just to make you shut up. Within reason, of course.

She gets her wish. Mr Graves opens the door and steps aside enough for her to slide through the door, into the toasty warmth of the house.

Somehow, that's not quite what she was expecting. Mr Graves has always seemed like such a grumpy, dark kind of man, that she never expected his house to be anything other than a reflection of the man himself.

"Why don't we take this into the kitchen, Mrs Sommerville?" Mr Graves, who seems to have recovered somewhat from the shock his unexpected guest gave him, asks. Mrs Sommerville nods, just about to inquire where she should leave her coat when Mr Graves clears his throat.

"Credence, why don't you take care of Mrs Sommerville's coat? And ask Chastity to make a pot of coffee would you?"

With that, Mr Graves disappears into the kitchen with the basket, and the boy – Credence – who has appeared at the bottom of the stairs without Mrs Sommerville even noticing, offers silently to take her coat.

Mrs Sommerville nearly collides with the younger girl, who comes down the stairs closely followed by the older one. Mr Graves appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Chastity," he says, addressing the older girl, "Would you be so kind as to make us some coffee?

Chastity nods quickly, slipping past Mr Graves into the kitchen.

"Why don't we sit down in the living room for a bit, Mrs Sommerville?" Mr Graves invites her, in a tone of voice that really doesn't leave any room for argument. So Mrs Sommerville does as she's asked and moves into the living room, which looks so much more homey than she'd imagined. Again, her view of Mr Graves seems to be slightly skewed by the fact that she sees so little of his life.

To Mrs Sommerville's surprise – though she thinks she masks it well, considering she's not supposed to know about it, because that would mean admitting to spying – the blue egg that was shattered into pieces weeks ago is sitting on the mantelpiece, looking for all the world like it's never been in close contact with the floor.

The children, Credence, Chastity and the youngest girl, who Mrs Sommerville soon learns is called Modesty, all appear in the doorway, Chastity carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, Modesty carrying a tray with Mrs Sommerville's pie on it and Credence carrying yet another tray, this one with plates, glasses, cups and Mrs Sommerville's bottle of mulled wine on it. There's a lot of things fighting for space on the coffee table in the end.

At first, the awkwardness and tension in the room is so palpable that Mrs Sommerville can taste it in her mouth, but she does her best to ignore it. She didn't get this far in life by letting awkward silence rule her. So instead, she begins talking about things she has learnt most people in this world will at least pretend to be interested in to spare her feelings; how lonely she feels in her own house, now that her daughter has moved out (no need for Mr Graves and the children to know that this happened several years ago), and how she's been aching for some decent company.

It takes a while, but soon conversation is flowing, if somewhat forced. Modesty chats away the most of the three children, because she seems to have recovered from the novelty of a visitor more quickly than the others, Mr Graves included. Chastity makes an effort to keep the conversation going whenever silence threaten to fall over them. Modesty learns that Mrs Sommerville has a cat that likes cuddles and quickly asks if she can come over some day to pet her.

Mrs Sommerville says yes, and adds that they are all welcome whenever, because an old lady can always use some help around the house, everybody knows that.

Credence doesn't speak a word unless prompted, avoiding eye contact the whole time, despite Mrs Sommerville's best efforts. Mrs Sommerville tries her best not to feel hurt and offended about it.

When they reach the subject of school – because Mrs Sommerville is fairly certain the children, at least the youngest girl, should definitely be attending school, and the kids haven't left the house for weeks – Mr Graves subtly inclines his head and all three of the children rise to quietly clean up and bring the dirty plates from which they've eaten Mrs Sommerville's pie back to the kitchen. Within seconds there's only Mr Graves and Mrs Sommerville left in the living room. The door to the kitchen falls quietly shut behind Modesty.

"You must wonder, Mrs Sommerville, why I suddenly have three children living with me, after years of living alone," Mr Graves says, suddenly sounding tired. He looks tired too, in a way Mrs Sommerville hasn't noticed before. There's shadows around his eyes, deep dark circles beneath them, and he seems to have aged a good deal in only a few short months.

"I have to admit, I've been curious," Mrs Sommerville tells him. "Honestly, I never even imagined you'd be the type to take on anyone who wasn't already a grownup."

"They're... I made a promise... Their mother died a couple of weeks ago, so I took them in. That's part of the reason they haven't been to school. I've been teaching them as good as I can from home, because I figured going back to school after everything they've been through, wouldn't be the smartest thing. But then again, I have no clue how to care for children-"

"Oh, the poor things," Mrs Sommerville cries. "Modesty can't be more than ten... To lose one's mother so young, such a tragedy!"

"Oh, no, Mrs Sommerville. There's no need to feel sorry on behalf of the children. Their mother was one of the worst kind of person there is, they're much better off without that woman in their lives," Mr Graves hesitates, and then continues, "I assume you've heard of the New Salem Philanthropic Society?"

"Oh yes. Such nonsense, if you ask me."

"The children belonged to the society, their mother was, well...the leader of the group. A horrible, horrible woman, in more ways than one."

Oh. Well, that changes things. Mrs Sommerville has only met Mary Lou Barebone once, years ago, likely before the woman had children. But even so, she thinks she knows what Mr Graves is implying when he says the woman is horrible. It's quite an easy puzzle to finish once you take a look at her children, Credence in particular. Poor child.

"Well," Mrs Sommerville says and decides she has already begun being honest with Mr Graves, so why not continue, "I came here tonight because I've been... suspicious, I think is the appropriate word, about the children living with you, Mr Graves. But I think I can put those worries to bed for a while, don't you?"

"I... I certainly hope so, Mrs Sommerville," Mr Graves says with a small smile. He looks at her, really looks at her for the first time since she's entered his home, and Mrs Sommerville fights the urge to look away. She gets the feeling Mr Graves can see inside her, and she hopes he knows she's being completely honest. She really is going to put her worries aside for a while.

"Now that we've got that slightly worrying matter out of the way," she rambles on, "I must confess I did have another ulterior motive coming here tonight, Mr Graves. You have three children in your house, where's your Christmas spirit young man? A Christmas tree is the least you can do for the poor children!"

That must have been the last thing the man was expecting, considering the look of confusion that manifests itself on his face and then disappears less than half a minute later.

 

*

 

Mrs Sommerville is getting ready to leave to spend Christmas eve with her daughter and her family. She's stepping out onto the pavement, her overnight bag, gifts for the grandchildren and Greta held close. Greta's basket – with Greta inside – sways a little from the cat moving in her sleep. While she waits for Jonathan, who promised he'd swing by to help her carry her things, she automatically turns to look at the house on the other side of the street.

Mr Graves has put twinkling lights up all around the door, a green and red Christmas wreath in the middle of it. The whole house is flooding with warm light, spilling out onto the street. The living room is full of people. Mr Graves is standing by the mantelpiece, overlooking the work currently being done by the children. Credence and Modesty are busy decorating a tree taller than Mrs Sommerville seen in many years, while Chastity is serving cups of something – probably hot cocoa – to a brown haired woman sitting on the sofa, chatting away to a red haired man, who seems slightly preoccupied by something Mrs Sommerville thinks is a large brown suitcase. Another couple are dancing around the room, to music that Mrs Sommerville can't actually hear, and it takes her a while before she can place the couple, because she'd bet her last dollar she's seen them before. It dawns on her less than a minute later. It's the owner of Mrs Sommerville's favorite bakery. Jacob Kowalski, or something like that. And there's the new girl who works at the bakery, the blonde one who always seems to know exactly what pastry Mrs Sommerville wants. They're dancing and laughing and oh... Mrs Sommerville thinks those two will be very happy together in the future.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs Sommerville is a muggle/no-maj, in case you were wondering. Thank you for reading and I hope you liked it!


End file.
